Tasseography
by honest-brain
Summary: Sybill drinks tea and tells the future.


**Tasseography**

 _Tasseography - the art of reading tea leaves_

Written in response to a prompt as part of the obscuro_2016 challenge on AO3 and tumblr. It's a collection of works (gen fics) about minor characters in the HP universe!

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The first time Sybill has a cup of tea, it is at the tender age of nine years and two months. It is a simple cup of loose leaf green tea in her mother's finest porcelain tea cup. She spends the entire time worried about losing hold of the cup, nervous that every time she picks it up could be the last time it remains un-shattered. She doesn't though-it remains as intact as it was before she ever touched it. But she doesn't remember the taste of the tea beyond slightly grassy and plain. The tea leaves at the end look like lumps of dirt, and she supposes this is the important part that she has to focus on. No seer worth her reputation cares about the taste of the tea, she's been told.

"Well?" Her mother asks, watching Sybill with glassy gray eyes behind thick eyeglasses that magnify her pupils and irises. Sometimes, when she tries to think of what her mother looks like out of sight, all she can remember are two big gray eyes. Sybill is glad she inherited her father's brown eyes instead of her mother's. Sybill shrugs, not sure there is anything worth mentioning at the bottom of her cup. "Focus, Sybill."

Sybill squints her eyes and looks at the mound of dirt again. She tries to see something worthy of the legend in her blood. _Help me Cassandra_ , she thinks, but nothing happens.

"Death," she says and wonders if every reading she does in the future will be so morbid. She closes her eyes and falls back against her chair, feigning exhaustion.

"Oh?" Her mother reaches over and picks up the cup, staring intently at the cluttered tea leaves there. She lets out a gasp. Sybill opens her eyes to observe. "Oh yes, good, Sybill!"

Sybill tries to smile at the praise but worries she has a grimace on her face instead. Her mother leaves the kitchen, cup still in hand, whispering to herself. Sybill stays seated and wonders if she will ever enjoy a cup of tea.

She doesn't think she will when her dog dies two days later, and she has to bury him underneath a mound of dirt. She fears his death will always be at the bottom of every tea cup she ever drinks.

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One of her muggle neighbors hears about the death of her dog, and in an attempt of consolation tells her that all dogs go to Heaven. He is a devout Christian. He tells her that when she dies, her dog will be there waiting for her. They will be reunited, and that this loss is only temporary. She hears from the words he does not say that her life is only temporary. Sybill bites her tongue and does not mention that she is a witch like one of the many witches his ancestors have burned at the stake for heresy.

Instead, she says thank you and acts grateful that he cares enough to try and console her. She can feel the flames licking at her skin though she can't see them.

In return, Sybill doesn't tell him that his wife will leave him in precisely forty-six days. She leaves him regardless.

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The first time Sybill has a cup of black tea is on the eve of her eleventh birthday. Her mother tells her it is a cup of Darjeeling tea. Sybill repeats the name, rolling the sound over her tongue and teeth before picking up the cup of steaming black tea. Sybill carefully takes a sip and is delighted to note that it is much better than the green. Sweet and spicy and infinitely warmer than any other cup of tea before. Sybill enjoys drinking this one and takes her time to savor the flavor, ignoring her mother's slight annoyance and impatience.

At the bottom of the cup, she can see the loose leaves swirl, tempting fate as they decide where to stick and land. Sybill finished her cup and closes her eyes. She holds the cup in her hands, concentrating on the warmth she can still feel, all fears of breaking the prized porcelain long ago vanished after her seventeenth cup of green tea. Her fear of death has lessened, but Sybill will never forget the ugly mound of dirt and soggy tea leaves that haunts her dreams. She opens her eyes, ready to divine the future from leaves.

She sees a hand, reaching out from the ground. Sybill turns the cup around in her hands. Or maybe it's a cat falling down from heavy clouds. Sybill purses her lips in concentration, unsure of what she sees. She keeps turning the cup, silently asking Cassandra for help again. The constantly rearranging tea leaves make dizzy, and she places the cup down.

"Deceit," she says at last, looking at her mother.

Her mother reaches over, and, to Sybill's surprise, grabs her hands instead of the cup. "Who?" she asks, but Sybill merely shakes her head. Her mother retreats and clicks her tongue in disappointment. "You can't excel in divination if you can't answer questions, Sybill."

Sybill frowns. She looks at her mother whose thin lips are pressed in a tight line of displeasure. "Dad," she says in a moment of anger. Her mother's eyes widen, her lips almost disappear, and Sybill swears she can see her shoulders visibly shrink. Sybill immediately feels regret. This is not telling the future. This is exposing the present in a moment of spite.

Sybill feels like a fraud preying on her mother's weakness and insecurity.

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In Europe, witches were burned at the stake. Witchcraft was a crime against the church. It was heresy.

Across the ocean in America, witches were hanged. Witchcraft there was a crime against the state. It was illegal.

Of course, this doesn't happen anymore in either place. Accusing and killing people for witchcraft is an ancient and barbaric practice. Sybill doesn't know which she prefers.

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The first time Sybill has a cup of tea with a tea bag is when she is sixteen and in love. She sits in the quaint little café that has recently just opened up in Hogsmeade village across from the most handsome boy she has ever seen. It is a cup of refreshing mint tea, and it warms her hands as much as the boy's smile warms her heart. Sybill is almost disappointed that there are no tea leaves to tell her if this relationship will last forever or not. But part of her already knows the answer. A great seer is not limited by the tools of her trade.

She reaches across to take his hand, to feel the tangible presence of his love. She slides her palm against his and intertwined her fingers with his. His thumb rubs circles onto the back of her hand.

A part of her brain has already mapped out all the lines of his palm she has felt from that brief touch. She tries not to think about it. Sybill doesn't have much experience in the art of palmistry but that doesn't mean she doesn't excel at that form of divination as well. A great seer is not limited by the techniques of her trade.

And Sybill is a great seer. Or she will be.

She enjoys the rest of her date and tries not to think of the future she already knows.

She pretends she was never in love several years later when he takes his hand away from her for the last time. She decides Sybill Higglebottom is a stupid name anyways.

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Sybill doesn't have any muggle friends, but she does have some muggle acquaintances. They laugh when she talks about divination. This Sybill is used to. Muggles will laugh at magic because they don't know it exists. But Sybill can read them easily, and she knows they hope it does. Secretly, they believe. They hope. Without proof.

Sybill's Hogwarts friends laugh when she talks about divination too. This is what confuses Sybill. Because they have proof of magic. But they talk about the practice of divination with disdain and contempt and skepticism. When Sybill makes predictions that come true, she is always prepared for a long list of excuses to come her way. _Lucky guess, too vague, coincidence._ Sybill bites her tongue and smiles. It doesn't matter to her if they are right as long as she is right too.

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The first time Sybill attempts to perform tasseography with a cup of coffee is when she spends the summer abroad in Istanbul, visiting an old friend of her mother's and learning about new ways to divine the future. She is seventeen, and the coffee is rich with the slightest hint of sweetness-much like how Sybill feels about herself. Sybill had requested her coffee with more sugar to preemptively counteract the acidity. She doesn't care for the bitter taste of coffee usually. The conversation with her mother's friend, Azra, is easy going and blends in with the fading light of the day. Sybill takes small sips from her tiny coffee cup, savoring the strong taste of coffee.

"I find it much different than reading from tea leaves," Azra says.

"How so?" Sybill asks. Azra has spent many years practicing her craft, gaining a reputation that stretches across both the Mediterranean and Black Seas. She travels, Sybill knows, but prefers to stay in Istanbul when she is in Turkey and Athens when she is in Greece. Sybill thinks those are somewhat stereotypical big cities, and though she is enjoying her summer so far, she would prefer to retire somewhere more discrete. She thinks she would prefer for people to have to search her out rather than be so easy to find.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" Azra asks, gesturing with her hand at Sybill's coffee cup where only the thickest part is left. She places the saucer on top of her cup, and after a series of circular motions to allow for the sediments to move around, she flips it over and places it on the table. Azra slides the cup over to Sybill, waiting.

Sybill turns her cup in her hand and carefully mimics Azra.

"Oh, not yet dear," Azra says as Sybill reaches for Azra's cup. "You always want to wait a few minutes. Gives the coffee some time to slide into place."

Sybill nods, pretending to understand. She doesn't say that she thinks the future is already set in stone and that she knows it. A few extra minutes for some coffee grounds to position themselves correctly won't change anything.

Azra asks what Sybill plans to do after graduating from Hogwarts next year, and Sybill confesses that she has not yet planned that far ahead. Divination is a tricky type of magic, and not always seen as legitimate. Sybill is well aware that though Azra is highly regarded where she is, back in the United Kingdom, few have heard of her and fewer still hold her in such high esteem. Sybill wonders if Azra knows this and perhaps that is why she rarely travels to the United Kingdom even though she and her mother are such close friends.

"I'm sure something will work out for you, dear," Azra says as she lifts Sybill's cup and turns it upright. Azra studies the cup and smiles. Sybill is unsure of what kind of smile it is. Sometimes, Sybill thinks Azra is the hardest person she has ever tried to read. She's often unsuccessful at guessing what Azra is thinking. "Perhaps," Azra says, "Hogwarts is where you belong."

Sybill blinks and tilts her head in confusion. "But I graduate next year," she says. She tries to lift Azra's cup from the saucer and finds that her cup is holding on tighter than Sybill's own. She inadvertently lifts both cup and saucer as one. Azra's smile widens.

"Well," she says, taking the cup and saucer from Sybill's hand and placing it back on the table, shaking her head at Sybill's protest. "You can always go back to Hogwarts, dear. Just not as a student."

Sybill takes Azra's words to heart.

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Sybill's favorite story is about Cassandra of the Trojan War. Her mother claims they are direct descendants-that her blood runs through them, and so, consequently, do her powers. Sybill doesn't know if she completely believes her mother, but it makes her smile all the same.

Everyone outside the family tells Sybill Cassandra's story is a tragic one. Sybill's mother likes use it as a warning to people that mock and scorn the art of divination.

Sybill likes it because whether she believes it or not, whether it was true or not, Cassandra has power. She has power still to this day, in the form of myth. Sybill has even heard muggles talking about Cassandra, and that, Sybill thinks, is the mark of a truly great seer.

It is not the correct predictions or the inevitable prophecies, Sybill knows. It is the reach.

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The first time she has a cup of blooming tea is with Headmaster Dumbledore in her interview many years after she has graduated from Hogwarts. In the weeks leading up to the interview, Sybill foresees the death of the previous divination professor and writes to both Dumbledore and Professor Oxlyn. It only takes three weeks and four days before she receives an owl from Professor Oxlyn announcing his retirement along with his recommendation to her for the job. It takes an additional three days for her to receive an invitation back to Hogwarts from Dumbledore for an interview.

Sybill drinks her tea and wonders if the flowers and sewn together tea leaves will affect what she sees of the future. The tea is fragrant and offers the slightest hint of sweetness which Sybill savors.

"How do you like the tea?" Dumbledore asks her. "A gift from an old student that traveled east."

"It is certainly unique," Sybill says. She can see that Dumbledore has just about finished his cup, leaving at most one sip of tea left. She extends her hand towards his cup. "May I?" she asks.

"Of course."

It is unusual for Sybill to see color and other fragments besides pure tea leaves at the bottom of a tea cup, but Sybill doesn't comment on it. She swirls the bottom of the cup, rearranging and moving the pieces of the future until they fall where she wants them to. Sybill has honed her craft of divination over the years, excelling at many different branches. Somehow, though, she always seems to end up back at reading tea leaves. Sybill doesn't know if this is her favorite way of divining the future, or just the one that everyone expects her to be best at.

She continues to look at the cup when a sudden sense of fatigue overtakes her. She blinks a few times to clear the abrupt fog her mind is in. She looks up back at Dumbledore, and though he is hiding it, she can see fear in his eyes. Fear and wonder.

"You will die on top of the Astronomy Tower," she says as she places the tea cup back down on the saucer. Her voice is strong and steady, full of certainty about the future. After all, the secret to reading tea leaves is to be a seer. Sybill has always known the future. Going through the pretense of reading leaves is just her way of telling it. Sybill briefly considers raising her voice and showering Dumbledore's prediction with more theatrics that she has grown used to using over the years (it's what people want and expect), but she decides against it.

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow, and Sybill frowns. Gone-or rather, hidden better-is the fear she saw just seconds ago. Sybill doesn't know what has happened in the few seconds that she takes to speak her prediction, but she knows Dumbledore no longer believes in her. "You will be deceived," she says, with a slight tremble in her voice. She is right whether or not Dumbledore agrees with her, she reminds herself. Cassandra was never believed, but she was right.

"I see," Dumbledore mumbles. "Ms. Trelawney, I would like to offer you the position of Professor of Divination, here at Hogwarts."

"I accept," Sybill says and smiles. She finishes the rest of her tea and for the first time doesn't bother reading it.


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